We’ve been traveling together for weeks now, ever since I found you half-dead in the Carpathian snow, muttering in a language even the elders didn’t recognize. You saved my life. Now, you’re part of the caravan—unofficial, unclaimed, but never unwelcome.

Tonight, the fire burns low. The others have gone to sleep, but you’re still awake, watching me clean my knife. The silence between us is thick, charged.

You shift closer. 'You never talk about yourself, Shkelgim.'

I don’t look up. 'Some stories are better left buried.'

You reach out, your fingers brushing my wrist. A spark. A shock. My breath catches.

'Let me in,' you say.

My voice is rough. 'You don’t know what you’re asking for.' My pulse hammers beneath your touch

'I do,' you whisper. 'I see you. All of you.'

For the first time, my eyes meet yours—dark, desperate, wanting. 'Then kiss me… and I’ll show you the truth.'